


lilacs grow on the grave of angel wings

by Aildreda



Category: Docile - Fandom
Genre: Angel Wings, Angels, BDSM, Bondage, Broken and Mending, Flower metaphors, Healing, Kink, M/M, New Beginnings, Poetry, Power Play, Sex, Sexual Abuse, Submission, Trauma, body imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aildreda/pseuds/Aildreda
Summary: Lilacs for Elisha
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	lilacs grow on the grave of angel wings

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't at all planning on writing this poem, but my brain tripped on a pebble called "Why am I Listening to Macklemore at 4 AM" and it just kind of happened. 
> 
> So, bdsm. Bdsm can be hot and fun and good times all around. But it can also heal. It can help ground you to the world when things get messy and dark and you feel like you're losing yourself. It can allow you to feel, and just feel, in a safe and controlled environment; help you feel _right_ in your body. And I have the utmost gratitude to creators who portray that with passion and care. 
> 
> I wasn't trying to write a poem for _Docile_ this weekend but I _have_ been thinking about the book for some months now, and I guess this is something of an overdue mini love letter.

* * *

  
One day you reach down your back and feel  
soft feathers brush calluses.  
And the gold around your wrist  
feels like a noose around your neck  
turned a grip around your heart, squeezing and claiming,  
as sweet lips press down  
six rubies on your tongue.

Fingers splay across the pulse of a want that you don't want  
but you want,  
and Pride smiles and whispers,  
'You're an angel in the making.'

But no angel deserves their halo when  
they're cast down and abandoned.  
All you want is to be good—  
slicked back and slick,  
body curved to the weight of something  
harder and stronger,  
ghost arpeggios a prelude to every morning afterglow.  
But they say the fruit is poison given without permission.  
Now your wings are torn and falling  
and what looks back in the mirror is neither  
person nor angel,  
but the broken piece of a hole  
that was never whole to begin with.  
And you're starting to wonder if  
good just means gone,  
and love a lie you lived in order to survive.

Then one day you reach up and feel  
petals down your back.

The cold around your wrist fades  
to the burn of a rope,  
and that's a different kind of squeeze and  
a different kind of claim, like  
a sister's laugh slipping to a father's embrace,  
leaving soft bruises that sink  
to remind you you're still here.

Because you're still here.  
And you're still you.

Grounded and flown,  
the tightness around your chest  
an anchor to the moment, because one second spent  
learning to voice those wants  
is one more second  
where you find yourself in your skin.  
Not as an angel,  
but you.  
Bruised and battered and broken  
and you.  
  
Fractures on pavements don't ever really close  
but look closer,  
the sunlight shines through.

And when you stretch out your arms and  
feel the wing scars ripple—  
see now,  
that's where the lilacs grow.


End file.
